Higher than the Empire State
by ibohemianam
Summary: No drug usage. Just another alien invasion with me throwing Clint around like a beanbag. No spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

_I went and watched the movie over the weekend. I've never been a huge fan of Marvel, but this movie was just so entertaining. I wish they had more Clint in there, though... And this is the result! No spoilers._

* * *

For a moment, Clint Barton wondered why the hell he was sprawled out flat on his back staring at the streaking sunset above. Said streaking sunset was then suddenly obliterated by a large, bulbous head, mouth wide open, fangs protruding. _Right…_ he thought, _Empire State Building. Mission: stop alien invaders. Again_. He twisted to avoid the path of the creature's whistling scimitar, grabbing his bow from where it lay several feet away. He leapt to his feet, nocking an arrow to the string and letting it fly in one fluid movement, ignoring the way the world reeled. Behind him, he distantly heard the whine of Tony's repulsors, the squeals as the beasts were incinerated in droves. As he knocked another aside with his bow and ducked under a rusted scimitar, he grimly made eye contact with Natasha, who stood with her back to what was left of the observatory wall, smoking gun in hand. He winced as the momentary lapse in concentration resulted in a gash across his forearm. A furious backhand floored the offending creature.

The seething mass of bodies around him receded for a moment, and Clint smiled grimly to himself as the bone-rattling roar of the Hulk shivered the observatory's already shattered windows. He drew an arm across his forehead, mixing sweat and blood. His arm burned and his back ached as the adrenaline flow ebbed; he leaned heavily against one of the few standing coin-operated binoculars, resting his head on his arm and blinking the grey from his vision.

There was a distant shout, a crash against the chain-link barrier, and a warning cry. Clint thrust himself back into full alert and bounded back to the north side of the tower where he had last seen Steve. Bounding up against the wall, Clint scrambled to the top of the chain-link barrier, drawing and firing at the massive creature that had been the last to materialize from the now-destroyed ship that lay smoldering 102 floors below. The adamantium arrow tinkled off its armor. Swearing softly, Clint nocked another, explosive arrow, and fired, eyes widening as a two-ton scimitar whirred straight towards his head. He turned and jumped in the only direction he could—backwards.

And off the Empire State Building.

* * *

_What do you all think? :)_


	2. Chapter 2

_Thanks for the feedback! :) Short chapter warning._

* * *

Tony turned just in time to see Clint re-enact a Peter Pan off the Empire State Building. He was about to hurl himself after the archer, but a distant flicker of motion behind the behemoth stopped him dead. Clint swooped up from behind the beast beyond the railing, swinging from a rappel attached to his belt. _He could be Tarzan,_ Tony thought, _if it wasn't for the whole deadly assassin thing_. Clint landed lightly on the chain-link fence, and Tony took this as his cue to send a concentrated blast straight at the beast, distracting it if not really having any desired effect. The creature let loose another shuddering roar, which was matched distantly by the Hulk.

"Get down!" Clint shouted as he let loose his last arrow, compensating for the extra-heavy load by aiming slightly above his target.

The beast turned far too quickly for a creature of its size, target in its sight. It raised the scimitar and—

—a deafening explosion sent everything flying.

Tony came to when a green finger the size of his lab bench prodded him none-too-gently in the chest. Blinking rapidly, he groaned and shoved himself to his feet, shoving aside the hovering Hulk.

"Wha—?" he staggered drunkenly (an action with which he was quite familiar) and righted himself on a railing protruding from the rubble.

"JARVIS, locate the team's com links," he muttered. No reply. "JARVIS?" Growling in frustration, Tony ripped off his helmet and shouted up at the Hulk, "Did you find anyone else?"

"We're fine," Tony swiveled, and Steve and Natasha emerged from the rubble, slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed.

A sudden flash of lightning, a semi-human roar, and a burst of flying steel heralded the appearance of a slightly-more-than-peeved Thor. They gathered together, glancing around at the destruction, wondering how the building was still standing. Finally, Natasha spoke, wondering if everyone else had truly gone mad and forgotten one member of the team.

Clearing her throat in the silence, she asked, "Where's Clint?"

* * *

_New chapter tomorrow? Who knows... ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

_(Slightly longer) UPDATE!_

* * *

Clint Barton stared blankly at the sky. Looking up was far better than looking down at this point. He was about twenty feet below the observatory deck, dangling approximately one hundred floors above Manhattan, spared death by the slender line hooked through his belt. _Maybe there was just _a little _too much explosive in that last arrow_, he thought wryly.

He knew the coms wouldn't be working. That blast had also included the strength of several electromagnetic pulses. IED's and other explosives were good friends. Friends. He wondered if he'd killed any of them. His friends. It wouldn't be the first time his carelessness had resulted in someone else's death. It might be the first time it resulted in his own, though.

He glanced down at his hands clenched across his gut. It should have been more than just a little disturbing that those two hands were all that was keeping his intestines from slipping out and falling a thousand feet and landing—_splat_—on the sidewalk, but the thought of it nearly sent him into hysterical giggles. He was probably in shock. No surprise there.

Even the force of the blast hadn't been enough to hurl him out of the reach of that two-ton scimitar. And he'd fallen twentysome feet before he could jam the rappel. Then he'd crashed into the building itself, cracking his head against concrete—again—and hearing sickening cracks from the vicinity of his third and fourth ribs. Now his legs were numb. Not that he minded. He'd hang here. And die.

Oh, well.

* * *

Tony growled in frustration. Their com links were dead. All of them. It was nearly laughable how they, the lauded Avengers, were stranded on the top of the Empire State Building smack in the middle of the freaking busiest city on the planet. Thor had already flown off, presumably to contact Fury. Tony would have joined him, but he was lucky enough as it was that the Barton's blast hadn't taken out his arc reactor as well. Barton. They hadn't found any trace of him yet. It was as if he'd never been on the observatory deck at all.

There was a distant grunt as Steve sifted through another pile of rubble as if it were a child's sand castle, and a crash and tinkle as Hulk, in a spurt of frustration, tossed a section of the chain link fence through what was left of the observatory. Chain link fence. _No freaking way_, Tony thought, breaking into a run to the still-smoldering outer wall where he had last seen the archer. Natasha, catching this action, started to her feet and trotted after him, tugging Steve along with her. Tony peered over what crumbling concrete was left at the dizzying drop to Manhattan, swarming official vehicles tinny and distant, moaning wind the only sound.

There, several windows down, hung the deathly still figure of Clint Barton.

* * *

_That was a lot of narration. Hope it didn't lag._


	4. Chapter 4

_Your reviews have been overwhelming... Thanks so much!  
On another note: I have absolutely no idea where Bruce's cat came from. Sorry. Short chapter warning!_

* * *

He'd never been suicidal before. Of course, there were his off days when he felt like kicking Bruce's cat off the helicarrier or throwing Steve's shield at the iron-brained Iron Man, but frustration rarely turned to the numbness that signified the ultimate resignation. There was always something to keep him going. Lately, it had been the team. Steve, who was as out of place as Clint often felt. Tony, who, despite the caustic layers of sarcasm, was a pretty decent guy. Bruce, who had taken to spending less time holed up in the lab in order to discuss _everything_ with Clint, from memory loss to cat food. Thor, who was… Thor. And Natasha. Natasha, who'd been there at his six for quite a while now. He'd never wanted to quit because though they were all "heroes" and "The Avengers" to the world, every single one of them knew that what elevated them above the rest was what had alienated them from society in the first place.

Clint could see the streets of New York begin to heave and swell, cabs growing fins and diving beneath the waves. _It's like _Inception, Clint thought, _A dream within a dream within a dream within a…_ He shivered. The wind picked up as the sun continued to slip below the horizon. Something niggled faintly in the back of his mind, something that he was supposed to do. Or not do. He wasn't sure.

His fingers were numb, caked now with dried blood. With great effort, he shifted his hands, trying to assure himself that they were indeed still attached to his arms instead of being lumps of flesh fused to his stomach. The world greyed, and he resigned himself to sucking in shallow breaths through clenched teeth. _Tunneling vision isn't ever good_, Clint mused, _I guess this is no exception_.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

"Clint!" Tony called, "Clin—"

He choked off mid-cry as he caught sight of Natasha climbing nimbly down the rope, which trembled violently in the wind.

"Hey!" he shouted, "Is that really such a—"

Natasha elegantly flipped him the bird, effectively silencing the great Tony Stark. She grabbed a hold of Clint, shoved off from the building face, and with a twist, turned and swung straight back at the window.

_No…_ Tony thought, _It's Tarzan_ and_ Jane_.

A great shattering of glass, and the rope went slack.

"What… just… happened?" Steve muttered.

"We found Robin Hood," Tony said with a grin, and with a little hop-skip, stepped off the Empire State Building.

* * *

_I have no idea why, but my chapters seem to be alternating short-long-short-long... That means that the next chapter is...?  
__Is it just me or has the review button become a more appealing shade of blue? ;P_


	5. Chapter 5

_(somewhat) longer update! :) This baby is on a roll. I hope I don't have to smash into any walls soon..._

* * *

Natasha hoped Tony would get his crap together and get down here. Soon. Though now would be nice. She glanced down at Clint, who was beginning to come around, strained breaths whistling through his nose. His hands were clenched in a death grip around his stomach, and Natasha knew better than to try and move them. She wasn't entirely sure that she wanted to know what had happened. Broken ribs, compromised intercostal muscles, tension pneumothorax, probable concussion, lacerated—. Natasha forced herself to stop, settling for pillowing Clint's head on her lap and slapping him (gently) in the face.

He came to with a groan, eyelids fluttering, squinting in the sunlight streaming through the shattered glass.

"'Tash," he mumbled groggily, "What—?"

A sudden crash and muttered curse sent Natasha springing to her feet, knife materializing in her hand. Clint's head clunked against concrete again.

"Tony," she growled, sheathing her knife lengthwise along her back, "suit working?"

"Aaah…" Tony trailed off, jerking a thumb behind him at the other shattered window and the sprinkled glass, "Seeing my uncharacteristically ungraceful entry into this room, it can be assumed that—"

"Save it," Natasha muttered, striding back to Clint's side. A hollow thud from the now-defunct elevator set her back on alert, gun in hand.

"Easy, tiger… ess," Tony chided, ambling over to stand between Natasha and the opening elevator doors, "It's just our favorite Star-Spangled Spandex Man come to save the day."

With a spine-tingling screech, the elevator doors shuddered open to reveal a disheveled Bruce Banner, who was slightly green around the gills, though not with rage.

"Don't. Ever. Do that. Again," he gasped, staggered out of the elevator, no, elevator shaft.

"Sorry," Steve apologized, hopping nimbly out himself, doors shutting with a crash behind him.

Bruce stumbled across the room to Natasha, collapsing rather than settling into a sitting position by Clint's side. "What happened?" he mumbled, still slightly dazed, staring at the again-unconscious archer before him before squinting up at her, "Where's Thor?"

"Head-hunting Fury. Or anyone with a chopper," Tony replied, jerking a thumb again by way of explanation, "Suit's iffy."

"He'd better get back. Fast." The urgency in Bruce's voice sent three pairs of eyes boring into him. He glanced away uneasily, murmuring, "Clint needs a doctor." Tony glared pointedly at him. "A better doctor than I am," Bruce amended, "A professional. But I'll do what I can." As Tony and Steve looked on, he again propped Clint up in Natasha's lap.

"Anyone have water? A blanket? He's dehydrated and in shock," the doctor had returned. Steve and Tony scurried off like helpful Oompa-Loompas. Clint shivered and winced, turning restlessly in his delirium. Natasha absently brushed the sweat off his forehead and kept two fingers on his neck, tracking the thread pulse. Bruce glanced at the archer's clenched hands and felt the growing knot of worry in his gut take a life of its own.

* * *

_Fear not, romance lovers... I have not forgotten you! It's coming... :P  
Meanwhile, rag on me all you want in your REVIEWS! ;)_


	6. Chapter 6

_Phew. An uber long (by my handwritten standards) one's coming right after this Hang in there!_

* * *

Steve squelched back into the room where Banner grew increasingly agitated. He tapped the doctor on the back and handed him a familiar object, now refashioned as a water vessel, albeit one that still crackled with residual energy.

"Did Tony give his ok?" Bruce asked, glancing askance at what used to be Iron Man's helmet and the dripping man who held it out to him.

Steve shrugged, crouching by Clint's side.

"How is he?" he murmured.

It was Bruce's turn to shrug, "Holding up. He's a fighter," he sighed, and added, as if on second thought, "Why are you all wet?"

"Had to bust a few water pipes to get what you needed. Got a shower, too."

Bruce shook his head slightly, deciding that next time, he wouldn't ask, but ask again he did, "Where's Tony?"

As if on cue, the man himself stomped around the corner, balancing a long, cylindrical object on one iron shoulder. Steve blinked in confusion; Natasha rolled her eyes. Bruce just stared.

"I couldn't find a blanket," Tony began, shrugging off his load, "So I pulled up some carpet. It's not perfect, but it's all that was on this floor."

With a long _sshhrrnnk!_, he tore off a strip of vaguely Clint-sized carpet just as he caught sight of the very expensive water glass in Bruce's hands.

"Wait. Where—"

"—Tony—"

"—Howdid—"

"—We needed—"

"—yougetthat—"

"—water—"

"—it'sminewhosaid—"

"—for Clint."

"Oh." A pause. Natasha had her hand on her knife. "Ok."

Steve resorted again to blinking in confusion, but let the matter drop uncontested, deciding, as did Bruce, that this gift horse should not be looked in the mouth. At least not now, that is.

Bruce muttered a few words to Natasha, who relaxed her grip on her knife and lifted Clint's head, gently calling him back to consciousness. The archer blinked groggily but greedily slurped Bruce's offering, coughing lightly as hasty swallowing resulted in choking. He gasped for breath, arms flailing as he struggled to find purchase. Bruce quickly raised him into a near-sitting position, pushing Natasha aside and thumping Clint on the back. Clint paled, and his hands clutched convulsively at his stomach.

"Bruce," Natasha half-whispered so softly that no one heard her, and she repeated herself, insistently, "Bruce!"

Clint's wheezing subsided to ragged breathing through his half-open mouth, and Bruce peered over his shoulder as the archer drifted slowly back to unconsciousness, replying, "Yeah?"

"Bruce, he's bleeding," Tony said bluntly, following Natasha's gaze, "a lot."

* * *

_How is this holding up? :P_


	7. Chapter 7

_Squeamishness warning! Also, I'm going off of movie canon. Lots of narration._

* * *

Bruce set Clint down again in Natasha's lap and wriggled back to the archer's side, eyes widening. In actuality, Clint's hands had, through caked blood and dirt, fused to his stomach. His panicked actions had dislodged the clotted blood, and the wound was reopened. Bruce frantically scanned the extent of the jagged laceration, which disappeared under Clint's shredded leather vest. Rising to his knees, Bruce gently eased aside these remains, exposing the length of the wound, which stretched from just below the left side of Clint's rib cage to his right hip bone. There was an ominous white gleam of bone. Bruce blanched. This was far beyond his abilities. The man had practically been sliced in half, and there was the peeking head of the transverse colon, the distended sigmoid. A rib had surely punctured the left lung. He could even hear the air whooshing into the plural space.

Bruce sat back on his heels, swiping a bloody hand across his forehead. He said faintly to Natasha as he staggered to his feet, "Put pressure on it. I… Need to… think."

He lurched out of the room, past the elevator, to an office space that had been stripped of its carpet. Shutting the door behind him, he slid down the wall and buried his head in his hands. It was too much. All of this was too much. They were stuck at the top of the freaking Empire State Building. Clint was probably dying. He couldn't do anything. A hopeless rage bubbled up in him, and he felt the familiar lurking tinge of green begin to cloud his vision. He, Bruce Banner, was helpless.

* * *

Steve glanced down the hall after Bruce in concern. He trusted the doctor to keep himself in control, but these circumstances hardly lent themselves to his tractability. He glanced down at Clint, whose ragged breathing was the only sound in the silence. As the assumed "Team Leader," he knew that the responsibility fell solely on him, and for a moment, he thought dimly of hurling his shield out the window to capture the attention of whoever remained on the ground. There was no one there, though. Everyone steered clear of the wreckage, away from danger. Natasha muttered a string of curses. Her hands were a brighter shade of red than her hair. He awkwardly bent down to help and turned to Tony, who kept staring at the blood pooled in Clint's chest as if it were something out of a distant nightmare.

"Why don't you go find Bruce, Tony?" Steve suggested, voice soft. He knew of Tony's past, what had happened with the Ten Rings and Dr. Yinsen. He knew all too well how it felt to lose one's closest friend. Granted, Tony had only known Yinsen for a few months, whereas he'd known Bucky for years and years, but months spent in captivity may as well have been a lifetime.

Tony nodded distantly and clunked off, running a hand through his hair. Steve glanced down the hall after Tony in concern.

* * *

Tony clumped down the darkened hall, thoughts distant, scrambled. He struggled to reconcile himself to what had happened, but all the thoughts whirling about in his head reeked only of captivity and hidden memories. He paused and glanced over his shoulder at what remained of the team. He'd only felt this helpless once before. That one time when technology had failed him, when al his brilliant gadgets could not save a dear friend. He was forced to acknowledge the truth of Steve's previous accusations. Without the suit, he was just a billionaire, playboy. Genius. Some genius he was. He operated on cold, unfeeling machinery, not the warmth of torn flesh and blood.

Tony considered Clint a friend. They'd certainly had their differences—quite a few of them, in fact—in the short time that Clint had been… Clint again. There was no denying the gentleness below the cold, calculating exterior, though Tony knew that Clint only showed that side of himself to Natasha. He hadn't needed JARVIS to tell him that. It was just the way he and Pepper worked. She took everything handed to him—good or bad—and made sure that nothing she handed back would hurt him. Or worse, waste his time.

It was plain to see that Natasha and Clint had some other clever archer's arrows embedded in their behinds. They, hopefully, were not of the star-crossed variety. Tony sighed and turned back to the Hall of Gloom. Such introspection.

He must be getting old.


	8. Chapter 8

_Yay... Natasha update! ____On a completely unrelated note, I recently became slightly overambitious with my keyboard and have a sore wrist as a result. To add to the insult, I stapled my finger today. I. Stapled. My. Finger. Why? The trials and tribulations of a student-writer. My apologies. Ignore this. And read the (somewhat) more entertaining continuation below._

* * *

Natasha held Clint in her lap, cradling him as if he were a fragile young bird whose wings had not yet fully fledged. It was no secret that she was protective of him. They had known each other for so long that one could read the other plainer than even Steve's honest emotions. They'd been through everything, went back years before "The Avengers" to her time as K.G.B. and his young years as a carnie. Countless missions spent hunting each other, fighting against each other, working with each other.

And now, he was lying in her lap, unconscious and barely breathing. She watched as Steve knelt down beside her and spread his large hands over hers as she struggled to keep her best friend from bleeding out all over the floor. She bit her lip as Clint stirred restlessly, a small groan escaping his lips. She smoothed his hair and whispered quiet reassurances in his ear.

"I think he's coming 'round," Steve said as he tore up a thin strip of carpet, wrapping it around Clint's torso as Natasha raised him again to a sitting position, bringing Tony's water-filled helmet to his lips, tipping it slowly now.

"Thanks," Clint whispered through cracked lips, voice strained, eyes glazed.

"You hanging in there?" she murmured, struggling to keep her voice level, controlled. Control. That was what she needed now.

"Yeah," a breathless sigh, "Not goin'… anywhere."

Natasha chuckled hollowly. He sure wasn't. He might not even—. She forced herself to turn off the calculation, to push aside logic. Calculation stated that Clint would die. She'd seen stomach wounds before. Death was slow, painful. Natasha looked away as blood oozed out from between Steve's fingers. She wasn't squeamish. She just couldn't stand knowing that it was his blood.

Why did that make such a difference?

Would she be choking back tears of terror, rigidly denying the very beating of her heart if the man lying before her had not been Clint Barton?

She knew the answer. She'd known all along, yet refused to recognize it.

No.

* * *

Clint drifted in a haze of pain. He heard Natasha's soft words, felt her hands in his hair. Under any other circumstances, he might have been embarrassed, but he had enough trouble breathing as it was. Embarrassment could wait.

There was a crushing pain in his chest, making breathing as monumental a task as any spar with Natasha. Though his eyes were closed, he was fully, painfully aware of the world around him. Clint forced his eyes open as a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his chest. A soft gasp escaped his lips, and he heard Natasha's quiet apologies.

"No," he mumbled, lifting a hand weakly, "Can't…" he wheezed, "breathe."

The tension in his chest smothered him, and he felt his tenuous hold on awareness begin to slip away. There were alarmed cries all around him, and he dimly recognized Natasha's voice sounding nearly frantic before he drifted away.

* * *

_How is this rolling? :P  
_


	9. Chapter 9

_Some attempted Thor-writing here. I'm not so sure how it all came out..._

* * *

Thor muttered to himself furiously, rage coursing through his veins. How he _longed_ to let loose the frustration that boiled within him. But no. He must be calm. He must not consider blasting this elderly Midguardian out of this chattering flying beast. No. He must be calm. And patient. And calm. And—

A shuddering groan, and the god felt his innards flop disconcertingly as they dropped several feet.

"Oh, my," the elderly man beside him mumbled, fiddling with the brightly flashing lights before him.

"Is anything… the matter?" Thor grit through his teeth.

"Oh, no," mused the Midguardian, aimlessly depressing a brightly colored button, "I wonder what this—" A sharp hiss of air and a lingering scream ejected the Midguardian out the side of the hell-copter, seat and all, propelled by some sort of mechanical arm. Thor stared, dumbfounded, as a colorful cloud blossomed from the falling man, slowing his descent as he plopped into the sea. He had grossly underestimated the Midguardians. They truly were ingenious creatures.

An insistent, high-pitched alarum brought him back to the present, and as he glanced up, the hell-copter's twirling arms ground to a halt. A whoosh of air, and the downward plummet began again.

"Curse you, metallic beast!" Thor bellowed, patience at an end.

A sudden ominous rumble, and lightning winged across the sky, striking the beast at the fork of its arms. It sputtered back to life, wheezing on across the sky.

"AHA!" Thor cried, "I have conquered you, oh growling Hell-of-the-Copter!"

The engine again shuddered to a halt, and the god brought another burst of lightning. They lurched on, smoking and stalling, the Empire State Building a distant glimmer on the horizon.

* * *

Natasha's stomach lurched as Clint succumbed to unconsciousness, and she felt his pulse go thready beneath her fingertips. She dimly recognized Steve's hands dampening the tattered fabric of a mysteriously procured sofa cover, draping it across Clint's stomach under the carpet-blanket. She numbly allowed herself to be gently pushed aside but kept a protective hand on Clint's arm as she stared and stared at his face, which grew paler with every passing moment, a faint crease of pain between his eyes. Natasha wanted to scream at him, to force him to wake up and _snap out of it_ so they could both go on living their dangerous lives in ridiculous skintight uniforms, saving the world from hideous creatures that never should have existed.

He didn't respond to her wordless pleading, and the desperation in Steve's movements drove her closer to madness. She heard him yelling down the hall for Tony and Bruce, but all she could do was stare fixedly at the irregular rise and fall of Clint's chest, willing him to continue the fight because if he didn't, she wasn't sure if she would ever want to breathe again.

With a mighty roar of barely-holding-together rotors, a helicopter appeared outside the window with, incredibly enough, Thor sitting the pilot's seat. Or at least what used to be the pilot's seat.

Hardly sparing a glance at the hovering aircraft, Steve bundled Clint into his big arms and leapt out the window into the helicopter.

Roused from her uncharacteristic stupor, Natasha sprang to her feet and leapt after him. There no way in hell she was going to let Clint out of her sight again. Not like this. Not with so much left unsaid. Steve glanced at her as she landed beside him but said nothing, just shifted to the side to allow her to settle into a crouch by Clint's side, willing him to keep breathing. She heard Steve shout at Tony and Bruce, who remained in the shattered room. Then the helicopter shuddered, and they wheezed off, Thor berating the crotchety "Hell-of-the-Copter" as lightning streamed across the sky.

* * *

_Well? This thing should be done in a few more chapters, so let me know what you think! :)_


	10. Chapter 10

_I have absolutely no idea what happened here... It was ten o'clock when I started, and now it's almost twelve. Scary._

* * *

"Here, here, here, HERE!" Steve insisted, vigorously tapping Thor on the shoulder as the chopper skidded to a stop on top of NewYork-Presbyterian. "Wait here," he commanded, then hopped out and sprinted over to a rusty trapdoor, tearing it open and disappearing down the ladder.

Thor turned around from his perch in the cockpit. "How is the Hawkeye?" he asked gravely, glancing first at Natasha, then at the supine archer by her side.

"Hanging on," she murmured, fixing her gaze on Clint's hand, which she held between her own.

"He is a warrior," Thor assured her, "Barton is strong, and your worry is needless." He paused, then continued almost cautiously, "It is understandable, however, to fear greatly for those for whom you care the most."

"He's my friend, Thor," Natasha snapped, "Of _course_ I care about him."

"Natasha," the god said in a tone far softer than any she had ever heard, "What I mean is—"

"There! Over there, in the chopper!" Steve's voice echoed across the dusky rooftop from an open door that exposed a brightly-lit stairwell.

Medical personnel streamed onto the roof, surrounding the chopper, muttering hurried instructions. A young orderly with kind eyes gently led Natasha out of the helicopter, murmuring quiet words.

"Wait!" she shouted as they began to carry Clint away, "Wait! He's—"

"He'll be fine, Natasha," Steve said, coming up behind her and placing a hand on her shoulder.

"But Clint…" she protested feebly, "he…" she faltered and lapsed into silence as the man in question was wheeled off the roof, leaving her alone in the sudden silence with Steve and Thor.

They stood in absolute stillness for a long moment.

"I need to… go," Natasha muttered, words tumbling out over each other as she brushed Steve's hand off and strode blindly to the door, desperately dashing the moisture from her eyes.

* * *

"There. Ta-da!" Tony proclaimed, holding out a piece of Bruce-shaped carpet for the latter to see, "It looks just like you!"

Bruce ignored him, anxiously scanning the horizon for any sign of the returning helicopter.

"Fine. Be unappreciative of my masterful artwork," Tony pouted as he rolled up the carpet and carefully place it next to four other rolls of Avenger-shaped office carpet.

Bruce closed his eyes in exasperation. Of all the worst case scenarios he had ever dreamed of, being stuck with Tony at the top of the Empire State Building had, strangely enough, never occurred. It wasn't as if that made matters any better, though.

"Tony, get away from the window," Bruce sighed.

The Iron Man leaned further out the shattered frame in response, grinning cheekily at the irritated doctor. "Why?" Tony asked, "Afraid I'll fall? It's only about a… hundred story drop. Won't hurt a bit."

"Go ahead," Bruce growled, "Make my day."

"A bit outdated, don't you think?" Tony replied, cocking his head, "Dirty Harry was soooo last century."

Bruce ran a hand through his wild hair and muttered, "Tony, just shut up and get away from the window. I'm not your babysitter."

"But you _act_ like one, Doctor Banner, so where are we now?"

"Tony, shut up."

"Nurse Banner—"

"Tony—"

"Mamma Banner—"

"Tony—"

"Mrs. Bannerfire—"

"Tony—"

"Nana Banner—"

"TONY!"

Tony froze, one foot out the window, both hands grasping the top of the window frame.

"Yes?"

"You hanging out the window makes me feel like turning green. Me turning green is not a good thing. Me green equals you—" Bruce made a grinding motion with his hands, "—so please spare me the pleasure of busting out of my pants again."

"Ooooh. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, indeed." Tony wiggled his eyebrows to great effect.

Bruce rubbed his forehead, beyond _irritated_ now and approaching _incensed_.

"Didn't you jump out of an airplane once?" Tony asked suddenly.

"Yeah…" Bruce kept his face in his hands. He did not like where this was going.

"You didn't have a chute, did you?" Tony continued.

"No…"

"You definitely jumped from higher than, say, two thousand feet?"

"Yes…"

"About how high up do you think we are?"

Bruce jerked his head up to glare at Tony. "Don't. You. _Dare_."

"What?" Tony shrugged, swinging now from the window frame as if he were a child on the monkey bars. _Quite an apt description,_ Bruce thought.

"I am not going to hurl myself out of the top floor of the Empire State Building just because poor _baby_ Tony Stark is bored out of his mind. Thor is coming back for us. We've just got to wait until they get Clint to the hospital and can head back for us. It won't be long."

"Who says I'm _bored_?" Tony cried indignantly, increasing the tempo of his monkey-bar exercises, "What if I just want to know if Clint…" he trailed off, looking miserably down at the empty street.

Bruce was stricken. He'd never thought that Tony, of all people, would care so deeply for other members of the team. Granted, he himself had been beyond worried, frustrated by his lack of medical expertise, but he hadn't thought that Tony realized the gravity of the situation. He was wrong.

"Tony—" he began, but he was interrupted by an ominous screech.

With a mighty crash and groan, the window frame snapped cleanly away from the building, leaving Tony suspended in midair for one breathless moment before he plunged out of sight. Without any hesitation, Bruce sprinted across the room and hurled himself out the window, feeling his stomach drop to the vicinity of his shoes before he was falling, falling, falling, four words drifting across his mind.

_Here we go again_.

* * *

_Film references, anyone? :)_


	11. Chapter 11

_Thanks for sticking around and sorry for the wait! I was initially going to end it all here, but I re-read the last chapter... And it was a sentimental load of rotten cheese. It stank. _

* * *

"Accursed Monster-of-the-Vend," Thor growled, pounding his large fist against the clear plastic before him. A few spider web cracks appeared. Thor blinked, inspired, and pounded the "Monster-of-the-Vend" once more, cracks spreading across the smooth surface before him. Just as he raised his fist again, Steve turned the corner and called, "Thor!"

The god turned, raising another meaty arm in greeting.

"I am conquering the Monster-of-the-Vend," Thor explained, gesturing at the machine before him.

"I… see…" Steve replied, eyebrows raised.

"Is there any news of Clint Barton?" Thor asked, suddenly serious.

Steve rubbed a hand across his jaw, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

"No news yet," he said quietly.

"Natasha?" Thor's voice was even softer now.

The chin-scratching intensified.

"She's holding up."

Both men stared contemplatively at the vending machine, its low hum the only sound in the deserted hall.

"Where are Tony and Bruce?" Steve asked, "I haven't seen them since—"

"—I have not yet retrieved them," Thor said stonily.

Steve stared, slack-jawed. "You mean you haven't picked them up yet? They're still at the Empire State?"

Thor jerked his head, an affirmative. He glared at the humming beast before him. _Battles fought…_

"Do you know what time it is?" Steve continued, "They've been up there for—" he checked his watch, "—three hours. Alone. Tony's probably driven Bruce insane by now, not to mention the fact that March really isn't the greatest month to be out after nightfall. It gets pretty cold."

Thor didn't respond, staring fixedly at the vending machine.

"Thor?" Steve inclined his head towards the god, who seemed worlds away, "Everything alright?"

"I am well, Captain," Thor said gravely, "It is for Natasha and Barton and I am concerned."

Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He could not deny that the same thoughts were on his mind as well. Taking a deep breath, he spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully, "I think what is best right now is to leave the two to their own to settle… whatever is going on. I doubt either of them would take kindly to any action on our part, no matter how well-meaning."

Thor nodded, in deep thought, "I think you are wise in your thinking, Captain."

A lopsided grin broke across Steve's tired face. "So how about we go and pick up the boys before they kill each other? Natasha is with Clint, and the trip won't take more than ten minutes."

Thor grinned wearily back, "That would be agreeable." Turning back to the machine, he raised a fist and prepared to deal the killing blow when Steve's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Wait," Steve said, biting back a bark of laughter, "I think I can figure this out without _completely _destroying this thing." He peered at the mass of products before him and back at Thor. "What do you want?"

Thor pointed.

"Mmmm. Good choice," Steve mused. He procured a dollar bill from his wallet and fed it into the machine, punching in the code on the keypad. With a satisfying whirr, the twisty wire retracted, and the plump plastic bag tipped over the edge, only to land wedged sideways between the glass and the shelf.

Thor frowned. Steve scratched his chin.

They stood, staring, slightly bewildered. With an exasperated sigh, Steve raised a fist, fully prepared to just go ahead and smash the darn thing to make Thor happy when a terrified scream from the hospital entrance froze him for a moment. A split second and glass-shattering roar later, a flying red-and-gold missile appeared hurtling down the hallway, flailing and tumbling through the air and headed straight for the pair. Steve grabbed Thor and dove away from the vending machine just as the flying projectile slammed head-on into it.

Staggering to his feet and clutching at a waistband for the gun that was not there, Steve cautiously made his way to the wreckage in the sudden deathly silence. With much coughing and wheezing, an all too familiar figure clambered from the smoking ruins of the "Monster-of-the-Vend."

"Tony…" Steve growled under his breath, hurrying forward to lend the man a hand.

Obviously concussed, the Iron Man took one look at Steve and hiccupped madly, "Hiya there Steve… I think… I'm in trouble. You see, I've got this problem," he giggled, "I think—"

"Shut up Tony," Steve interjected, now thoroughly concerned.

"I think…" Tony continued, "I think Bruce is _mad_ at me. Do you have any idea how _terrible_ that is?"

"Don't I know."

* * *

_Too much side-story? What was it that Thor wanted from the "Monster-of-the-Vend"? I'm not entirely sure myself! :P_


	12. Chapter 12

_Yes, I know. Updates are coming further and further apart... Unfortunately, that's the way it'll have to be until I get out of school for summer break. I've got two banquets this week alone, and am, ironically enough, turning_ The Catcher in the Rye_ into a musical. Life is kind of weird right now... :P_

* * *

Natasha wisely decided against strangling the nurse standing before her. The woman had the guts to stand there and tell her to leave. Who the heck did she think she was? Natasha folded her arms across her chest and settled further into the chair, letting the nurse's words roll right on over her head. She wasn't going anywhere. Correction. She wasn't leaving Clint. Wherever Clint went, she went. As of now, he was not going anywhere. So neither was she.

"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you listening?" the nurse fluttered her clipboard in front of Natasha's face.

A low growl escaping her lips, Natasha lunged to her feet, snatching the clipboard out of the woman's hand and throwing it to the ground, where it shattered with a loud CRACK of plastic.

"_You_ listen to _me_," Natasha snarled, jabbing a finger into the nurse's chest, "You've got _no idea_ what's going on. You probably don't even give a freaking _shit_ about it. So let me get this straight, _nurse_. You get you and your freaking hospital protocol _the hell_ out of this room because Clint Barton—" she pointed with her other hand at the bed behind her, "—is my best friend. He's probably my _only_ freaking friend in this hellhole, and I'm not going anywhere _without_ him. _Got it_?"

The nurse nodded frantically.

"Then _get out_," Natasha spat.

As the door slammed shut, Natasha exhaled loudly, turning slowly to face the pale, still figure in the bed. Her fists clenched, and in a sudden fit of inexplicable rage, she let fly a sweeping kick at the clipboard fragments on the ground, ignoring the stinging of her toe, reveling in the sound _smack_ against the far wall. She gritted her teeth and fought back the again-rising tears, stalking stiffly back to the hard, plastic chair under the hard, plastic lights and sinking back into its hard, plastic embrace.

She couldn't look at him. Not when he was like this. Helpless. Lifeless, even. This wasn't Clint. Clint would never lie flat on his back, let alone lie still for so long. Clint would never let her lose control. He would always be there with a quirked eyebrow, a caustic joke, an inquiring touch on her arm. He would always make everything better. Clint would never leave her. So she would never leave him.

* * *

"Hold still, you _idiot_," Steve muttered, levering both hands down on Tony's shoulders, "let the doctor check you out."

"Ooooooooh, Steeevo…" Tony sniggered, struggling and failing to wriggle out of Steve's grasp, "Easy, there! Don't wanna… go too fast, ya know? It's… It's…"

"Just shut up, won't you?" Steve sighed, respect for Bruce growing exponentially by the second.

Tony grumbled unintelligibly, but allowed the tiny man in the enormous white lab coat to peer into his eyes, ask a few general questions, and prescribe an overnight stay, just to be on the safe side. Steve nodded dutifully. Great. That made three of them. _May as well turn NewYork-Presbyterian into the new Stark Tower…_ he thought.

Bruce was still in his unconscious "Post-Hulk" stage. Jumping from the top of the Empire State Building probably didn't help things either. Tony was now strapped to the bed. Clint had just come out of surgery. Natasha was with him. _Well, I guess that makes four._

Steve jabbed a finger at Tony, growling in his best imitation of Nick Fury, "Behave yourself, Stark."

"Yyeeesssss, baaaaaabe," Tony drawled.

Steve rolled his eyes and shut the door behind him, standing for a moment in the empty hallway to take a deep breath, feeling the excursions of the day start to take in his bones. He glanced at his watch again. 0217. Rubbing the coarse stubble on his chin, he set off down the corridor to Clint's room, determined to check on both the archer and on Natasha. Steve wasn't entirely as guileless as he seemed. There was a reason he had become the de facto "Team Leader," and it wasn't just the star-spangled uniform.

* * *

_Yaaaaay! Medium-length chapter! :D_


	13. Chapter 13

_I am terrible. I know. Here's the longest chapter EVERRRRR! I think._

* * *

Steve gently placed a large hand on the door at the end of the corridor. Knocking gently, he called softly, "It's Steve. Can I come in?" He knew better than to walk into a room with the two most tightly-wound members of the team unannounced.

"Yeah," was the faint reply from within.

Steve poked his head in around the door and stepped into the darkened room slowly, shutting the door behind him with a quiet thump. Natasha sat with her back to a wall in a hard, plastic chair, angled so that she could both see the door and also be within arm's reach of Clint. Clint. Steve fought and failed to keep the emotions from his face, cautiously pacing over to Natasha's side, where he placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. She glanced briefly at him, but kept her eyes fixed on the man in the bed, who was all but drowned by the sheets and tubes and machines.

"How are you holding up?" he asked gently.

"Great," her voice was strained, tightly controlled.

He stifled a sigh. The hospital walls would do the Irish jig before Natasha would admit her true feelings. Her true feelings, which were—?

The door burst open behind them, and Natasha leapt to her feet, knees bent, hands raised. The hard, plastic chair clattered to the ground behind her.

"Natasha, it is only I," Thor placed both hands up in front of him, palms out, "I apologize for the intrusion. Perhaps I am not welcome?"

Natasha uttered a growl through clenched teeth and stormed back to the chair, wrenching it back upright and throwing herself back into it, arms folded crossly. Thor carefully stepped into the room, slipping and nearly toppling onto his backside when he stepped on a clipboard that had somehow wound up on the floor by the door. Steve raised an eyebrow graciously. Thor glared, electing to lean against the wall by the open door, burly arms folded across his chest, content, for once, to wait.

Steve went to find more chairs and returned with a barstool and a wheelchair. He was not quite sure why he had found a barstool in the janitor's closet. He didn't want to know. Thor took the wheelchair, fascinated by the "Wheeled Chariot," leaving Steve perched uncomfortably on the stool like a vulture on a cactus.

Silence ticked on for a few minutes, and a timid knock at the door brought Steve's head jerking up from his chest with an undignified snort. Bruce stood in the still-open doorway, pale and swaying slightly, but with a weary half-smile on his face.

"How's the waiting game going?" he asked hoarsely, gratefully accepting Thor's vacated wheelchair.

Steve's lips twitched in a wry grimace, "It's still going."

Running a trembling hand through his hair, Bruce asked slowly, "So, how bad was it?"

"IT WAS GREAT!" Tony entered with a screech of wheels on linoleum, sending Natasha to her feet again.

Bruce half-started to his feet but became tangled in the wheelchair's footrests and would have fallen flat on his face had Thor not reached out and steadied him with one large hand.

"Tony…" Steve muttered in exasperation, "Aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I AAAaaamm!" Tony protested quite loudly, "I'm in a CHAAAIIIIRRR! A WHEEEEEEEEELCHAAAAIIRRR!"

"For the love of all creatures great and small, would you mind putting a lid on it?" Bruce winced, settling back into his own Wheeled Chariot, "Aren't you the one with the concussion?"

"Yep," Tony chirped, "I got the meds."

"Oh, God," Steve mumbled, massaging his aching head.

"Anyways, Bruce was AWESOME tonight!" Tony continued, gesticulating wildly.

Thor contemplated summoning Mjölnir, but decided that beating one's teammate to a bloody pulp, no matter the circumstances, would reflect badly upon Asgardians as a whole.

"He turned all green and did this sort of flying tackle thing as I fell down the Empire State Building—"

"I _what_?" Bruce gulped, turning a shade paler and gripping the wheelchair's armrests as a lifeline.

"We fell like one HUNDRED floors and—"

Bruce moaned and placed his head in his hands.

"—we smacked into the street like—_KABLAM_ –" Tony smacked his hands together for effect.

Steve wondered if Tony would survive being hurled out the hospital window. They were only on the twelfth floor. Maybe not.

"It was like an earthquake and a tsunami and a volcanic eruption all in ONE! It was AMAAAAZZZING!"

Bruce thought he might pass out.

Natasha, on the other hand, had had enough. Surging to her feet (and knocking her chair over again in the process), she took two long strides to Tony, who was doubled up in hysterical laughter. Seizing him by the front of his hospital gown, she glared straight at him and growled, "I have waited so very patiently for this day. Today, I finally have an excuse to throw your sorry behind out the window and not give a damn about it. Get your act together, Tony. Today wasn't 'AMAAAAZZZZING' for everyone. If you can't contain your enthusiasm for putting innocent people in danger, I can physically remove you from this room, if not this world, by myself. Clint needs his rest and so does the rest of the team, so shut up or get out."

In the dead silence that followed this pronouncement, a raspy chuckle wheezed from beneath the sheets and tubes and machines.

"Well said, 'Tash," Clint Barton whispered, "Very well said."

* * *

_I think there's just one more to go! :)_


	14. Chapter 14

In the chaos following Clint's sudden return to the world of the living, Natasha dropped Tony back into his chair with an ignominious _thump_, Steve toppled from his stool in surprise, and Thor kept a wary eye on Bruce as the latter sprang to his feet again, lest the doctor again become entangled in the Wheeled Chariot. In an instant, Natasha was by Clint's side, tentatively brushing the hair from his eyes with one hand, a cautious smile on her lips.

"Hey," she whispered, ignoring the ruckus behind her, "How're you holding up?"

"Never been… better," Clint grunted, managing a lopsided grin of his own.

Another sudden screech, and Tony was beside them, beaming, eyes slightly unfocused as he slurred, "Grrrreat to see you too, Clinty."

The archer blinked in incomprehension.

"He's concussed," Natasha explained.

"Ah…" he shifted uncomfortably, unable to hide the faint crease of pain that flickered across his face.

"I should go get a nurse," Steve volunteered, having unobtrusively righted himself and his stool.

"—_No_," Clint half-gasped, eyes fixed on the woman beside him, whose hands he clutched weakly.

Steve and Thor exchanged the briefest of looks, and Bruce sank slowly back into his chair, a mixture of apprehension and anticipation on his face.

"I think… I think I'll just step outside for a moment to see if I can figure out what's going on with Fury," Steve offered.

"I shall aid you," Thor continued, "Communication on this Earth requires much skill."

"I should probably get some rest," Bruce said quietly, hands on the push ring of his wheelchair, but Steve took the handles of the chair instead and prepared to wheel him out. The doctor murmured a faint thanks as Thor held the door open, an unnecessary doorstop.

Tony remained where he was for a moment, blinking in confusion, before realization spread across his face.

"Oooooohh…" he cooed, making wiggling motions with his fingers, "You're going to—"

Thor quickly stepped across the room and slapped a large hand across the man's mouth, shooting Natasha an apologetic look as he manhandled the Wheeled Chariot and its flailing occupant out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him. Together, they joined Steve and Bruce as the former crouched under the room's window and peered inside as Bruce looked even more apprehensive, if that was even possible. With his hand still firmly clamped over the Man of Iron's mouth, Thor squatted next to Steve and peeped through the slatted blinds to the _couple_ inside. Tense silence reigned for a few long minutes as earnest conversation appeared to take place. Natasha suddenly stiffened and stood.

"Oh, boy…" Bruce muttered as Natasha turned and strode to the window.

With her middle finger elegantly raised for the second time that day, Natasha glared through the window and snapped the blinds shut.

"Is this the appropriate time to say that we are 'royally screwed'?" Thor hissed into the dead silence.

"Mmrphgh," Tony replied.

* * *

_The end?_


	15. Chapter 15

_I'm terrible. Sorry. I really thought that I'd be done with this thing a LOT sooner (and with fewer chapters), but I failed. Haha. I have absolutely no idea where this came from, but here it is!_

* * *

**Seven months later…**

"Hey Bruce, have you seen my shield?" Steve poked his head into the glass-walled lab and directed the question at the man hunched over a keyboard, fingers a blur.

"Mmmmm… Don't think so," Bruce replied, eyes fixed tensely on the screen before him.

Steve frowned. "Ok. Thanks." He turned back down the corridor and up the stairs. Funny thing, that. He could have sworn he'd left it on his nightstand, but when he woke up this morning, it had disappeared. Lips still pursed, he headed to the kitchen for a quick snack. Food usually made everything better. Yanking open the closest fridge, he peered at its brightly lit occupants, settling for a plastic carton of carrot sticks. The only other options were cheese sticks and beer. Cheese sticks made him slightly gassy, and to him, beer was like water, albeit with slightly more tang, but all the fun had gone out of drinking the stuff. Unless Tony or Clint or Thor (or _all three_ of them) were to challenge him (again) to a drinking contest. Speaking of which, where _were_ they?

Steve bit down with a sharp _snick_ on a carrot stick and surveyed the eerily quiet open floor. Senses immediately on alert, he slowly set down the carrot sticks and felt behind the fridge for the pistol he knew Natasha kept there. He had it half-cocked before a distant whoop from somewhere outside the window caught his attention. That had to have been Tony. What could he be doing _outside_? Steve thought that he might not like to know. Cautiously making his way over to the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, Steve unlatched one and stuck his head outside. Something large fluttered by his head with a sound reminiscent of large tarps and moving tents. With a whoosh and whine of repulsors, Tony zipped by, trailing what appeared to be an enormous roll of carpet behind him. Steve watched, mouth agape, as the Iron Man sped across to the neighboring office building, taking the still-unfurling carpet with him and attaching it to an open window several floors down.

"We're all ready!" he called to someone several floors above Steve, who swiveled his head to stare.

There, four floors above his head at the very top of what had formerly been known as Stark Tower, stood Clint Barton, red-white-and-blue shield in hand. He stared dubiously at the four hundred-foot length of carpet spread before him.

"Are you sure about this?" he shouted back to Tony, who was hovering about halfway between the two buildings just beyond the edge of the carpet-slope.

"Of _course_ I'm sure!" Tony replied, jerking his head impatiently, "Bruce has run all the tests and postulated the crap out of this thing!"

Steve could hear Clint's sigh even four floors down.

Clint turned to someone behind him, gesturing with the shield, "Aah… Ladies first?"

A very un-ladylike snort. "Good try, Clint. Be a man."

"He's converted you too," the archer grumbled.

"Hurry up!" Tony called, "I'll catch you if you fall, dearest, so just get your butt in that thing and push off! It's just like tubing!"

_They're not…_ Steve thought, _Oh, crap. They are._

"Why can't Thor goes first? _He's_ a god, AND he can fly so if he falls off—"

"We went over this a _million_ times!" Tony yelled, "Thor _may_ be able to fly, but he's also got fifty pounds on you!"

"Tony just called you fat, Thor," Clint again addressed someone behind Steve's line of sight.

"In Asgard—" a deep voice began.

"Oh, God, save it," Clint snapped, stepping back to the edge of the roof and hefting the shield in a hand.

"Just _DO IT_!" Tony bellowed, "I'm not waiting here all day!"

"FINE!" Clint roared, smacking the shield down and plopping himself into it, looking for all the world like an oversized dog in a dish. He turned back to the roof's occupants, "Just in case I die, which is highly likely, I'd like to say one thing—"

"THOR, NOW!" Tony cried.

Thor appeared behind the babbling Clint, who gripped the edges of the shield with white-knuckled hands. The god bent down, both hands on the archer's shoulders.

"May you enjoy the ride, Clint Barton. And may the wind ever be in your face," he intoned ceremoniously.

"Holy—" the archer nearly squeaked as Thor gave him a mighty shove in the back and he tipped over the edge onto the improvised slope in his improvised sled. He took a deep breath and blurted out the words as quickly as he could before flying down the mountain of carpet, the wind snatching his words away to echo in the streets below.

"—!"

* * *

_THE END.  
For real this time.  
_

_A huge thanks to my readers/reviewers, particularly Luna Obscura, who always made me feel guilty (inadvertently, I'm sure) for being unmotivated about writing (and therefore motivates me), and 3LW00D for the medical stuff I got completely wrong. I'm so glad this thing is done. One less sword hanging above my head. :P  
_

_Will you have another?_


End file.
